


Bonny & Clyde

by x_los



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Fluff, Gambling, Honeymoon, Intoxication, M/M, Post Gauda Prime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake gets drunk and thinks it would be great fun to run a con. Avon can't say no to him, especially when he also thinks this sounds like an ideal way to spend their holiday. Honeymoon fluff for the Sexually Liberated kinkmeme prompt: "I would like Blake drunk. Possibly also involving a casino."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonny & Clyde

**Author's Note:**

> beta Aralias, first reader Elviaprose

Blake blinked blearily up at Avon from the visibly vibrating shuttle berth. "It's not exactly a dignified honeymoon," he groused, not for the first time. "I always secretly despised those people who went on cruises, or to tropical resorts—the obvious, commercial, package holidays. Yet here we are."

Avon had tried to rob just that kind of cruise operation a few years ago. He declined to say as much, for fear Blake wouldn’t find it entirely respectable in a bridegroom. This wasn't _his_ first choice either, as Blake well knew. They would have to make do with what they had: a private cabin in the shuttle, a personal guard outside the door (Soolin counted—and the squadron she led certainly did), a relatively successful outer-world Alliance that was currently fielding three petitions for entry from nonaligned planets and one from a world in the Federation's direct sphere of influence, and a host of reasons not to go to any of the places Blake actually wanted to go. 

They were still wanted men on Earth, which put to bed all Blake's fond muttering about ruins. Avon had also flatly refused Blake's 'bucolic paradise' options, because he could endure poisonous snakes, sunburns, and the absence of technology and convenient advanced medical facilities, but he wouldn't do any of it for fun. The ancient and highly developed civilization of Merin was in its planet-wide monsoon season (more of an inundation, the tourist board stressed--though these assurances did not fill the newlyweds with confidence). And Tyce Sarkoff was so annoyed with Blake for getting married to a _different_ sarcastic, well-groomed, proud, vampiric personage that Avon didn't feel entirely safe on Lindor. The 'regretfully cannot attend' invitation card Tyce had returned to them had contained rather pointed wishes that Avon would enjoy a long, happy life and the best of heath and definitely _not_ die nastily and soon and leave behind a grieving widower in need of consolation, all of which was disturbingly suggestive of contrary inclinations on her part. 

Albion had extended its hospitality––Albion was very cold, as Avon remembered well. Horizon had said they could drop in. Blake had been tortured and then thrown into a mine for a brief turn as a slave laborer on Horizon, and though he valued the planet’s friendship and support Blake would just as soon _not_ return personally. Teal and Vandor wanted to look a bit more neutral than hosting the Alliance's First-Family's post-nuptial bash would allow them to look (though secretly they'd already signed trade agreements with the Alliance). Space City was still controlled by the Terra Nostra, who still bloody hated the Alliance's First Family for setting their most profitable drug-running enterprise back by a decade, and for supplying the underground terrorist Bek (a consistent thorn in their side) with funding and support. Which left Blake and Avon with only one real option. 

"Freedom City,” Blake said, citing the shuttle’s ultimate destination. “The _Big Wheel_.” He gave that an especially wry turn. “For what you have maintained for the entire journey will be your first visit down to the surface, when I know very well you and Vila scammed this place with Orac while the rest of us were off doing real work." He smirked up at Avon knowingly.

Avon raised an eyebrow. He had thought, actually, that he'd managed to keep that one under wraps. But Blake always managed to surprise him. If it wasn't by knowing all about Avon's years'-old misdeeds, it was by planning an insanely dangerous raid on Federation financial institutions, or by knowing far more than Avon _himself_ did about a more excitingly dangerous sexual variant Avon had wanted to corrupt Blake with. Actually, given his druthers, Avon preferred the exposure of his misadventures to most other possible Blake-surprises, which were liable to be more lethal, more embarrassing or both. Blake had, after all, seen Avon at his absolute worst, and had somehow agreed to marry him anyway – a little larceny (well, an impressive amount of larceny, actually) was, unfortunately, nothing compared to Avon’s grandest mistakes. 

"You didn't invite me to do the real work with you," Avon reminded him, aware now that Blake had thrown out this possibility in the first place in hopes of catching him out. "You took Jenna and Cally out for drinks in their best frocks. I had to make my own fun."

"And did you?" Blake asked, taking another drink.

Blake, as Avon wouldn't have guessed from his spitting defiance on the _London_ , was actually a nervous shuttle flier. A big craft like the _Liberator_ was fine, but give him anything with shakier suspension, and give Blake sufficient safety that he felt able to show _any_ weakness, and he sulked like a bear roused out of hibernation too early, looking pathetic, growling, and allowing (with an entitled grumpiness) Avon to soothe him. Avon found it a little charming, that Blake was absolutely rubbish at something and that he got to see it. That Blake wanted a touch of this sort of indulgence from him, when Blake was normally so strong and self-contained. 

Avon’s soothing had taken the form of suggesting that Blake dull the pain with some of the very acceptable alcohol they'd brought with them. The suggestion and the alcohol alike had gone down well, and Avon had plied Blake for the past several hours while remaining almost perfectly sober himself. Between sulky flashes when he remembered he felt ill, Blake had become warm, friendly and physical, pulling Avon to him, toying with his hair, stroking his back, telling him what he was thinking, quite unselfconsciously. It had enabled Avon to be unselfconscious in return. 

Avon smiled, pleased with himself. "Oh yes, I did. To the tune of ten million credits, my love. Well,” he shrugged, “five million, after I split it with Vila."

"That," Blake said, "is rather a _lot_ of fun. Orac didn't come in for a share, I take it?"

Avon tsked. "You never counted Orac in your 'seven' – why should I apportion the machine a stake? What would Orac do with it, anyway? I tried seeing if it was some form of investing genus, given its capacity for prediction and computerized interference, and was distinctly unimpressed with the results. I got a lot of excuses about illogical human behavior and no return."

"What about me?" Blake asked.

Avon eschewed the easy joke about Blake’s ‘illogical human behavior with no return’. Blake undoubtedly had a winning response at the ready. Even drunk, Blake wouldn’t offer such an obvious lead-in unless it was actually a trap. "Everything that's mine is, of course, yours," Avon reminded him. "My labor, as you never fail to remind me; the money in my neutral financial conglomerate accounts; and my immortal soul, if I've still got such a thing."

Blake smiled—a soft and hazy thing—as if the notion charmed him. "Well, well. Have I really come into all that?"

They'd rather formally moved past their botched reunion on GP, and five months after the incident had been on cordial, strained terms. Someone important had suggested Blake offer his hand in marriage to Zara, who had become the leader of Betafarl after her cousin Zukan’s death, and Blake was weighing the proposal. He didn’t like the idea much, but would do it, if something that old-fashioned and dramatic really was needed to secure the warlords’ trust and demonstrate his ability to keep faith with them. 

Despite the warlord alliance having been Avon’s idea in the first place, he’d hated _this_ particular iteration of it more obviously even that Blake himself did. He was at his worst-tempered, and also still tremendously awkward with Blake. 

Still, when a sniper had nearly taken out Blake, Avon had thrown Blake down out of the path of the shot. Soolin had taken out the assailant and told the two of them to stay put, running with half her guard team to make sure the shooter had acted alone and to recover his body, leaving a few men to cover Blake. Before Blake could thank Avon or ask what the hell this particular attempt on his life was all about, Avon, looking immensely agitated and still on top of Blake, had snarled, " _Dammit_ can't you take care of yourself?" 

Blake's eyes had narrowed, and he'd opened his mouth to respond. Before he could do that, Avon had continued, "Obviously you _can't_ , and you require someone to do it for you. If you need a minder, you’d do better to just marry _me_."

"All right, I will," Blake had retorted angrily.

Avon had blinked at him.

Blake had blinked back.

"Did you just ask me to marry you?" Blake had said, recovering first.

"Did you just… accept?" Avon's expression had gone from angry to shocked and still. 

"Was that--a _joke?_ " Blake had asked. "A figure of--"

"A _joke?_ " Avon had seethed, instantly furious. "Oh, I'll _show_ you a--" 

He'd smashed his mouth into Blake's, and this had been the start of a two-year engagement. There had been a lot to arrange. First they'd had to actually have a relationship. Then they'd had to work around the vital business of pulling the alliance together, with Blake’s extra-Avonic marriage decidedly off the table. But finally there had been time and opportunity to solemnize arrangements. Avon had insisted that, after that, they should have their first actual holiday together in the six years they'd known one another. He didn't care if it had to be in a bloody timeshare overlooking a mud flat, so long as it involved, him, Blake, safety, lubricant, and no work whatsoever. 

Freedom City was several cuts above what he'd been prepared to accept. 

"Yes, I rather think you have come into ‘all that’," Avon said, patting his husband's shoulder absently. 

"Excellent," Blake said airily. "I should like to think of myself as a man of property. And you are a considerable estate." 

Avon laughed sharply. "I've never been called that before."

"Surely you've been called everything before." Blake grinned at him, wriggling deeper into the pillow. 

"Not quite." Avon tilted his head. "Not everyone has your vocabulary." 

"Well, if you want to be called anything in particular, just left me know. Oh fuck," Blake went a little green, "we're decelerating."

"I suppose that means we've arrived," Avon said, with a perky sort of light enjoyment of his husband's suffering, " _but_ for the docking process, of course."

At the thought of that long series of adjustments, Blake moaned extravagantly into the mattress.

***

"I worked in an establishment very like this when I was a teenager," Avon commented as they surveyed the salon, having visited their room, changed, and decided to see what the place had to offer. 

Blake started. "I never knew that about you--why haven't you told me everything?" He pouted a little. Still tipsy. 

Avon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Perhaps I'm dolling my past out in installments, to maintain an air of mystery, and thus your interest."

Blake grimaced at him. "That sounds both scarily plausible and completely ridiculous." He grabbed Avon's shoulders in his hands. "Avon, baby, I want to know all there is to know about you. If you think it's prosaic, I don't care; if you have a mania for crossword puzzles, that's _fine_. You _never_ have to worry about keeping my interest. You never have to be anything but yourself with me, and I want all of you, every _bit_ of you. Understood?' His eyes were fierce, and their expression as determined as it was tender.

" _Baby?_ " Avon repeated with deep incredulity. 

"That's one more thing you've been called," Blake said, "and that's not the point, Avon. The _point_ \--"

"You've made it," Avon said, rolling his eyes, not quite able to clear the softness he suspected was suffusing his own expression. Bless Blake's inebriated deep earnestness. "I'll tell you every embarrassing, trivial thing as it comes to me. Given your level of intoxication, I’ll probably bore _myself_ before _you_ find it tedious."

“Thank you,” Blake said with all the polite gravity he mustered when signing treaties and the like. Blake then smiled at him, whole-heartedly, and it was like the sun coming out. Avon swallowed. 

“You should drink more often,” Avon said, aware that sounded a little stupid.

Blake beamed as though it hadn’t sounded anything of the kind. “I should drink more right now!” Blake suddenly lit on an idea. “They have everything here, don't they? Or so the brochures and Vila promised. We should see if they have any mead! I've always wanted to try that!"

"Oh yes," Avon said (mentally noting that it was Vila who'd betrayed him--naturally it was). Blake should definitely stay drunk and glow with well-earned happiness, under the benign auspices of the on-site security team and Soolin's people, trailing at a discreet distance, concealed at the moment and wearing civilian clothing (Soolin herself having slipped away to the mud baths--she too having more than earned a vacation). "Anything you want."

***

Mead, it turned out, could have an alcohol content of more than 20%. A comparatively small glass had rendered Avon more buzzed than he wanted to admit to, and further bolstered Blake's spirits. 

"So how did a nice boy like you," Blake grinned seductively, "come to work at a place 'very like' this one? And as an impressionable teenager, too."

"Well," Avon drawled, leaning in to speak quietly to Blake, grinning back, clearly flirting, "it was a high-class establishment, you understand."

"Oh, I'd expect nothing less," Blake assured him, looking Avon up and down. 

"Mm." Avon took another sip. "I was, of course, a maths prodigy."

"Of course," Blake agreed with great solemnity.

"And I had, naturally, the customary Alpha work assignment--but," Avon's lip twitched, "I managed to annoy a superior, and got sent down as something of a punishment."

"You amaze me," Blake drawled. 

"Shut up, Blake," Avon drawled right back, popping his husband's name with a special insouciance. "I decided to get a bit of my own back--to revenge myself upon the system, if you will." He idly ran his fingers along Blake's. He'd used to have a habit of caressing his own fingers, but now that he had a casual familiarity with Blake's body and the use of it, that nervous tick had largely been usurped. 

"So how did this _shockingly_ insolent brat go about revenging himself?" Blake prompted.

"He devised a way of scamming the gambling computers," Avon murmured. "He was never caught, either. He successfully absconded with several thousand credits, before the sentence was repealed and he was allowed back into the establishment's good graces."

"Clever boy," Blake said, catching Avon's eye. "I am impressed."

Avon raised an eyebrow. "I was impressive." 

"You haven't lost your touch as far as I've noticed," Blake said. It was cheap, and Avon enjoyed it anyway. 

"One is seldom called upon to perform heists when one is an Alliance minister," Avon said with a slight sigh. Where was the life that late he’d led? True, he'd given it up for a steady salary, additional safety, progress towards greater goals, and the regard of a man who meant everything to him, but Avon dressed in suits rather than leather jackets now for a day’s work with a slight pang.

"Seldom isn't never," Blake said, and Avon recognized with slight wariness the familiar look of Blake getting an idea in his head. These were rarely _budged_ from Blake’s head without great difficulty: often it was best to just do what Blake wanted, and a drunk Blake might well be just as stubborn as a sober one. "I imagine you could still pull a scam along those lines at the drop of a hat, _and_ get away with it."

Avon tried to laugh it off, pointedly pushing from his head the fact that his last partner had gotten him to agree to destabilize the entire Federation banking system for her, that he liked Blake a _lot_ better, and that Jenna had once described him as, 'underneath all the bitching and heel-dragging, Blake’s worst enabler'. "You _are_ intoxicated, Blake. We're in government now. We have, at least, _your_ reputation to uphold--"

"Avon," Blake was doing his Intent Eyes again, " _you_ won't get caught. And what happens in Freedom City stays in Freedom City."

"What the _hell_ does that even--?"

"You're always _so_ good at this sort of thing," Blake murmured, low. Avon felt heat pooling in his stomach. "Competent and confident in your element--and you bring a certain style to it. It's deeply appealing. I’ve always gone for bad boys, did I ever tell you that?” 

“No,” Avon said, “no, you never told me that.” It was the sort of thing he would have remembered.

“It'll be fun, Avon—and I can definitely help. What do you want me to be?" Blake gave him a sideways smile. "Devoted assistant, partner, moll?"

The answers 'All' and 'Speared on my cock, this instant, why the hell aren't we back in the room?' warred within Avon. God, Blake could talk him into anything normally, but Blake drunk was a human weapon of mass destruction. Avon himself was buzzed and feeling charged, self-satisfied and reckless.

Blake sensed he was winning this one, and Blake did love to win. "Didn't you bring that studded jacket?" he asked, keeping his voice light, faux-innocent. Digging straight into Avon’s poorly-concealed susceptibilities, flattering him shamelessly. "You should wear that - it looks the part. Is there anything you want me to wear?"

Fuck it. Resisting Blake was, as ever, futile, and anyway this was _exactly_ what Avon wanted for his honeymoon. If Blake felt bad about defrauding the criminals ran this place (who'd previously collaborated with Servalan to try and capture them) in the morning, they could always return the money and send a nice apology card.

***

"That part," Blake gasped as Avon slammed him against the closed door of their luxurious rented room, snarling, ripping open the black jacket he’d picked out for Blake and sucking at his neck, "where you intimidated that bouncer who tried to heavy our winnings off you--oh _god_."

"Another thing I haven't been called before," Avon purred, unzipping Blake's flies and curling his hand around Blake's cock--which didn't seem to respond negatively to the alcohol, because Blake's luck extended, apparently, even to his genetics.

"That was so impressive, Avon, _Avon_ , god, you _sexy_ son of a bitch," Blake panted, twitching under Avon's firm strokes. Avon bit Blake’s neck and Blake whimpered under him before Avon broke away.

"That's _not_ new," Avon said, "at least the pejorative isn’t. But you do it better. And your distraction--You know, I don't think I've ever had such a talented, clever moll. I think I'll keep you." 

"Why _thank you_ ," Blake purred.

Even drunk, Blake could certainly act when the occasion called for it--wide-eyed, he’d asked, 'What seems to be the trouble, Chevron?', which Avon had soothed with 'Nothing, dearest, these gentlemen made a mistake, that's all'. As they'd spoken, Blake had discretely passed Avon back his pre-loaded access key, which Avon had used to trick a series of moderate jackpots out of various machines, and which Blake had just retrieved from the last machine it had seduced into yielding up its credits.

But then they'd gotten inveigled into a real high-stakes card game--the house had wanted its money back, and hadn't been interested in taking no for an answer. Fortunately a combination of wild luck and the actual poker skills Avon had learned from many a game on the Liberator with Jenna and Vila (as well as a couple of comments from Blake in the past about determining people's tells) had resulted in Avon's honestly winning. He’d scooped up the mound of chips with a firm 'Good evening, gentlemen,' and headed to bed, instructing Blake to accompany him with a snap of his fingers. 

"And now," Avon breathed, "I am going to very _impressively_ fuck you through the mattress." 

"Are you really? Say please," Blake rumbled.

" _Please_ ," Avon returned, voice thick with want.

"You're quite, _quite_ welcome," Blake said, tugging him down on the bed. 

Avon positively ravaged him, and Blake, still luxuriantly inebriated, was a most enthusiastic participant in his own despoilment. 

It wasn't the honeymoon either of them would have chosen. They were still embroiled in a complicated war, and much of what they wanted for the world and for each other was still barred to them. Avon still found Freedom City a somewhat inappropriate place to consummate his marriage to a man who'd shaped him profoundly. He was always very serious about Blake, and Blake was always very serious about him, and this trashy, gauche casino was hardly the right venue for a celebration of their intense regard for one another. But then Blake was also his friend and his partner in crime, and they could be safely preposterous together. The two of them could go from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again. And Blake apparently _liked_ Avon’s several weaknesses and sordid, tarnished, embarrassing bits, as much as he himself liked Blake’s. Trust Blake to make this place work--even drunk to make something amazing for them out of nothing, as he always did. 

"So, what do you want to do tomorrow?" Blake asked, dazed, in the aftermath. 

Avon laughed. They still had nine more days of holiday, after all. They’d just augmented their modest honeymoon fund by twenty thousand credits, and from Freedom City Avon could access his previous winnings besides. It was difficult to imagine where they’d go from here (other than ‘an incredibly opulent room, instead of this merely acceptable one’—Avon planned to insist on that—and a series of ludicrously expensive restaurants), but Avon was confident that, between them, they’d think of something to top this.


End file.
